The Holy Woman (16 page)

Unable to contain herself any longer, she burst forth: ‘Look
lovely
– in this? Can any woman look lovely in this garment? I loathe this cloth, Sister Sakina. It burns my body! I have never even worn a shawl, a
chador
, let alone a
burqa
in my entire life. This thing – I cannot bear it! It is smothering the life out of me. Do you know that black was my favourite colour, two months ago? But this!’ Her body began to shudder
uncontrollably
behind the cold soft fabric.

‘I know, my sister, but you will have to bear it. You will get used to it soon.’

‘Never! Never!’ Zarri Bano’s harsh voice tripped over a lump rising in her throat as she turned her face away from Sakina, hiding her vulnerability.

‘You’ll change, Zarri Bano, I can personally assure you. I went through this phase that you are going through. It is a moment in time only, my friend. Like all phases of time, it brings with it emotions, pains and heartaches. For you, life will never be the same,’ she promised. ‘You’ll have the most exciting time you can imagine. You’ll become knowledgeable about Islam – a scholar. You’ll have followers – respect, dignity, honour and fame. I have all that. I could never have had it, if I had just married like an ordinary woman, and had a family.’

‘Sister Sakina, I don’t want respect, honour or fame! I want to be my normal self – an ordinary woman,’ said Zarri Bano, her voice quivering with emotion.

‘Once I said the same, Sister Zarri Bano. Later I changed my tune. I have never regretted it and you’ll not regret it either, my sister. Of course, occasionally there will be pangs of nostalgia, that is quite normal. You’ll feel those when you see women surrounded by their children, or when they are having an intimate
tête-à-tête
with their husbands. But those losses are just a drop in the ocean, compared with what you will gain. You’ll have freedom and independence. I have travelled all over the world. I have studied at university. I have been to international conferences. Could I have done all this if I was tied to a husband and a family? I tell you this to make you feel better, to convey to you that the gains of becoming a
Shahzadi Ibadat
surpass by miles the losses you make.’

Listening politely to Sakina and letting her words wash over her, Zarri Bano couldn’t hold back her
agonised
cry. ‘All I know is that,’ she pinched a fold of the
burqa
in front of Sakina, ‘with this cloth, Zarri Bano is dead. The woman who lived in this room for the past
twenty-seven years, is gone. I have been stripped of my identity and a stranger is taking my place. I am, at this moment in time, wrestling with the death and
mourning
of one woman, while preparing in fear for the birth and rise of another. I don’t want Zarri Bano to die! But I cannot keep her alive. I have to part with the woman in love, Sister Sakina, in order to fall in with my father’s aspirations and wishes and our clan’s customs. You know why this is so, because the same must have
happened
to you. This is in order to guard our inheritance, our precious land, which will be penned to my name, by the time this day ends. I don’t want the fields or to become the heiress, Sister Sakina – but then, that is beside the point, isn’t it? It has been willed by my father and grandfather that I will be
made
the heiress and the Holy Woman.’ She took in a deep and
shuddering
breath.

‘But I have my pride too, Sister Sakina!’ she went on passionately. ‘Nobody can take that away from me. I will not do
all
their bidding. There is a bit of Zarri Bano that I will retain for all time, even though I will kill and bury the rest. And that is my personal pride and integrity! If you’ll excuse me, Sister Sakina, I have something to do before I go down. I will not go down as a bride-cum-nun – I can only be one, not both!’ Her eyes sparkled in her flushed face.

Sakina stared back, dumbfounded. ‘Yes of course. Will you be all right?’ she asked meekly.

‘Yes!’ Flashing her most beguiling smile at Sakina, Zarri Bano’s cheeks dimpled. Sakina immediately felt better.

Now fully in control of the situation once more. ‘I will call you when I am ready,’ Zarri Bano gently informed her visitor.

Sakina left the room and stood outside in the
corridor
, talking to Ruby.

Inside the room, Zarri Bano threw the
burqa
off onto the bed. With quick deft movements, she removed each piece of jewellery from her neck, ears, arms and fingers. Slipping out of the red bridal outfit, comprising of a long sequinned pleated skirt, with a short matching tunic, she stood tall in her ivory silk slip in front of the mirror and surveyed herself.

Next she unpinned the wavy coils of her hair piled high in a becoming regal style. Shaking her head, Zarri Bano let the heavy silky curtain fall around her
shoulders
. She gazed at herself for long poignant seconds in the mirror, etching forever the picture of her face onto her mind.

Then, taking a large pair of scissors from the
dressing
-table drawer and holding her hair in a heavy bunch at the top of her head, Zarri Bano sheared it across with a strong steady movement. Eight inches of glossy hair fluttered in feathery bunches on to the marble floor. Zarri Bano glanced again at the image in the mirror. Like a newly hatched chicken, her hair stuck out in an unbecoming style around her face.

Not recognising herself Zarri Bano stared,
mesmerised
by her appearance. Then, taking a tissue, she wiped her face clean of all traces of make-up.

Satisfied with her work, she slipped the
burqa
back over her head, feeling much lighter now. There were no pins digging into her scalp, no necklace painfully
bruising
her neck, no heavy bangles weighing down her arms, and no heavily embroidered outfit being crushed by her cloak.

The cloak hid the shape of her body totally. ‘I could be fifteen stones in weight and obese, but nobody
would know the difference,’ Zarri Bano mused. In effect nobody would ever guess that apart from a silky slip and other pieces of lingerie, she wore nothing else.

‘Ruby,’ Zarri Bano called. She wasn’t ready to face Sakina yet.

Ruby came running in, then stopped – transfixed. She bravely battled with the image of her sister in the
burqa
, her lips quivering with distress.

Zarri Bano read and analysed the fleeting expressions chasing over her younger sister’s face. First there was shock, then an urgent wrestling with her facial muscles as Ruby tried desperately to smile at her sister, and failed miserably.

Her heart sinking, Zarri Bano looked sadly at her sister’s face.

‘Ruby, you are my mirror,’ she whispered. ‘I think what you think. I feel what you feel, my darling.’

‘Have you not seen yourself?’ Ruby gulped.

‘No,’ came the sad reply, prompting Zarri Bano to move away from the tall mirror.

Suddenly, Ruby shrieked in horror as she spotted the hair on the floor. Squatting down, she picked up the soft waves and held them out to Zarri Bano. ‘Why have you done this to your hair,
Baji Jan
?’ she questioned in shock.

‘What use is it, under this
burqa
?’

Shaking her head in disbelief, Ruby fingered the silky waves in her hand. Then her eyes fell on the
jewellery
scattered on the dressing table and the bridal outfit thrown on the armchair. She turned a look of sheer incredulity at her sister.

‘I can either be a Holy Woman or a bride, Ruby. I cannot be dressed for both,’ explained Zarri Bano. ‘These things are yours to inherit – my trousseau as
well as my waves. You always envied me my hair. Now you can pin the waves to your head, for you will not have to hide
your
hair.’

With firm dignified steps, Zarri Bano went out into the corridor. Sakina was amazed at the transformation she saw there. The tension, the misery, the devastation had indeed been
killed
off! Zarri Bano’s poignant words that ‘Zarri Bano was dead’ and that ‘now a stranger had taken her place’, darted back in Sakina’s mind. A stranger did indeed stand in front of her! For who else could look as serene as this woman did, after the
heartbreaking
scene they had earlier shared in her bedroom?

‘Are you ready to go down, Zarri Bano?’ Sakina smiled at the young woman, offering her hand to her.

For one electric moment, Zarri Bano’s heart skipped a beat. Then, in control once more, she inclined her head proudly.

‘Yes, Sister Sakina. Thank you for coming to see me, and talking to me. We are two souls locked together by our special fate.’ The wooden words didn’t manage to mask the sorrow in her tone.

‘There is no need to thank me, my beautiful sister.’ Sakina saw with wonder that Zarri Bano’s beauty would shine through like a beacon, in all its glory, even in a
burqa
.

Sakina called to Ruby. The girl came out of the
bedroom
, still reeling from the shock of knowing that her sister was almost half naked under her
burqa
and her hair was shorn. She stared bemused at the two head-
to-toe
black-clad women.

‘Are you all right,
Baji Jan
?’ she asked in a voice thick with tears, her eyes on Zarri Bano’s face.

‘I am fine.’ Zarri Bano pressed her sister’s hand. ‘Be assured that I will not let you, our father, or the clan
down,’ she whispered in Ruby’s ear, pushing aside her earring. ‘I will go through with it.’

‘I know you will, my dear sister, but I don’t
want
you to go through with it! I just wish to God that it was a bad dream and that I would wake up with a sigh of relief.’

‘It is no dream, Ruby, my sister – I should know! Have I not wished a hundred times to wake up from this nightmare that has tormented me for the past two months? It
is
happening, Ruby. Wake up!’ The bitter edge to her tone marred the smile she flashed for Sakina’s benefit.

‘Let’s then go and get this farce over with,’ Zarri Bano mumbled to no one in particular as she started to walk down the stairs.

T
OGETHER
, Z
ARRI
B
ANO
, Sakina and Ruby descended the wide circular staircase. An eager
entourage
of women and children awaited at the foot of the stairs, supposedly to catch their first glimpse of the Holy Woman in her ceremonial veil. Weddings were a common affair. This, however, was a very rare event and seeing Zarri Bano, the glamorous daughter of Habib Khan, become a Holy Woman and in a
burqa
was an event indeed.

Zarri Bano didn’t disappoint them! Her eyes
flickering
cynically over their excited faces, she smiled
becomingly
, acutely aware of the spectacle that she and her sister made.

What a contrasting pair! the women thought.
Both sisters were beautiful, one looking her best in her special party outfit for the occasion, while the other was enveloped in a shapeless black cloak, with ninety per cent of her body totally hidden from sight.

Crowding together and leaning over each other’s shoulders, the women guests perked their ears, trying to listen to the chink of Zarri Bano’s gold bangles. They were sure that she was wearing gold jewellery under the
burqa
, because they had seen it displayed in the
marquee.
‘Pity she didn’t come down in her finery and show herself off before she got into that black crow’s outfit,’ mumbled one woman to her friend in exasperation, feeling cheated.

In the large drawing room, Zarri Bano’s arrival had already been announced prior to her entering it. As the sisters stood on the threshold, all eyes turned with a hypnotic stare in their direction.

Gazing steadily in front of her, Zarri Bano saw rather than heard the guests take an in-drawn breath,
knowing
she had indeed created a spectacle. Nobody had ever glimpsed Zarri Bano in a
burqa
before. Nor would they have expected it of her in a hundred years for, amongst Habib’s clan, she had the reputation of being the elegant and fashionable one, on whose head the
dupatta
never stayed in place. Also, she was the one reputed to turn men’s heads.

Now seeing her dressed in such severity, some of the guests, both men and women, felt ill at ease as the stark implication behind the ceremony suddenly came
pressing
heavily down on them. The ceremonial trappings in the room were reminiscent of a wedding. Yet it wasn’t a wedding they were gracing with their presence. There was no groom to congratulate or happily garland with money. Nor a coy bride to admire in her splendid bridal
finery. Just a beautiful woman hidden from sight in a severe-looking black cloak, with a very unbecoming slit for her face. Today it was an upside down world.

Stunned, and with her mouth half open, Gulshan, Zarri Bano’s cousin, sat next to her mother with the other guests. She had earlier helped to dress Zarri Bano, but now she found it difficult to come to terms with her cousin in a
burqa
. An envious admirer of Zarri Bano, she had spent much of her short life hating and admiring her cousin for her good looks, poise and finesse.

Her envy dated back to her childhood days. Gulshan had always felt overshadowed by Zarri Bano, to such an extent that she had found it almost painfully
claustrophobic
to be in the same room as her cousin. Sharing Zarri Bano’s traits of arrogance and vanity, she,
nevertheless
lacked her wit, charisma and beauty.

When Gulshan had first heard of Zarri Bano
becoming
a Holy Woman, she had felt a jolt of perverse delight, followed by guilt. Like everyone else in the hall, she had waited with bated breath to see if Zarri Bano would actually do it, would actually come down in a
burqa
as a Holy Woman.

Now as she beheld her in the black sack-like cloak, a storm of feelings rent Gulshan apart. Instead of
gloating
, she was overcome by horror and compassion. It is an outrage! she thought shakily. The other woman is suited to the part, but not our Zarri Bano. Tears
pricking
her eyelids, she longed to shout out to the guests: ‘Don’t do this to our Zarri Bano, please!’

Her lips, however, remained sealed, bound by
centuries
old patriarchal customs and conventions of female silence and obedience. What could she do,
anyway
, if Zarri Bano’s own mother and sister had been powerless to help? She cast a surreptitious glance at her
grandfather, her Uncle Habib and her father. An aggressive vehicle in full motion, well engineered and oiled, the ceremony was rapidly heading for its
inevitable
destination. Gulshan, as a mere young woman, was just a small pebble in the company of giant rocks, to be easily trodden upon and crushed if the need arose.

Gulshan noticed the broad-shouldered young man who sat with his mother in the same row of chairs as herself. He, too, was watching the proceedings with a hypnotic fascination. Gulshan admired his clean,
good-looking
profile. A flutter of attraction curling inside her, she marvelled: ‘Does Zarri Bano feel nothing for this man?’

The man whose looks had attracted Gulshan was, however, receiving glances from a number of people. It seemed so strange, for if Jafar had not died, it would have been Sikander sitting next to Zarri Bano as a groom. This was
kismet
indeed!

Immune to all the interested glances cast his way, Sikander’s eyes remained fixed on the black-cloaked woman. Could that be Zarri Bano? His mind wrestled with the image. This figure bore no resemblance to the woman he knew and had desired. He recalled her peach-like skin, her glossy curls, her feminine curves – where was everything? He clamped down on the
insatiable
urge to rush up to her and tear the ugly garment violently aside from her body. In vain he tried to reason with himself as to why he was reacting so strongly. Older women had worn the
burqa
for centuries. Most women, in certain sectors of Pakistani society, still wore them, but he could not bear to see his Zarri Bano dressed that way.

Sikander riveted his steel-grey gaze on Habib – the master puppeteer in this macabre theatre. Tasting gall
in his mouth, Sikander felt the heat of hate rush to his cheeks.

His eyes on his eldest daughter, Habib pretended to be oblivious of Sikander’s stare and his animosity. Like everyone else in the hall he, too, was shaken by Zarri Bano’s appearance in the
burqa
, but he managed to keep his face poker straight as he sat with his father, Siraj Din, his brother and another village elder.

Facing the four seated figures of the men on the stage was the group of women, comprising of Zarri Bano, Ruby, Shahzada, Sakina, an elder aunt of Zarri Bano’s and Chaudharani Kaniz from the village. The latter, as the late landlord’s wife, had been given the special honour of sitting on the stage.

The stage was set up at the top end of the hall. Like the rest of the room, it was elaborately festooned with balloons, colourful bulbs and streamers. A special red floral Persian silk carpet graced its floor. Near Habib and the other members of his family sat two village elders on a large velour-backed
chaise longue
. In the centre of the stage stood a mahogany coffee table with a large bouquet of fresh flowers in a vase. Next to it, on an elegantly carved walnut trellis, rested a large Holy Quran with an exquisitely hand-painted cover. Facing the stage, on rows of velvet-backed chairs, sat the guests.

Coughing to draw attention to himself, Habib stood up to face his audience. Zarri Bano sat with her dark head lowered, gazing down at the silk Persian carpet. Clearing his throat, her father began.

‘Welcome everybody, my brothers and sisters,
relatives
and friends, to my daughter’s ceremony. I am most honoured to have you here today. For those guests who arrived a few days ago, I hope you have enjoyed
your stay in my home. For those of you who have arrived today, I hope that you will be able to stay with us for a couple of days, at least, and accept our humble hospitality.’

‘I have invited the most revered of all the
buzurgs
in our district to perform this
ceremony
. He has been connected with my family and clan for a long, long time. Of course, as you are probably aware, the ceremony that you are about to witness is not a typical wedding ceremony, or an engagement party. It is
peculiar
to our clan and we are very proud of it. It elevates, in a unique way, our women into a role far beyond the common lot of women. My beautiful eldest daughter …’ He glanced at Zarri Bano with love shining out of his eyes.

‘My Zarri Bano is to be my heiress, our Holy Woman. She will become a scholar of Islam, a moral and religious tutor for hundreds of younger women in our town and province: a female symbol of purity and
Ibadat
in its purest form. Eventually, we hope, she will have her own school of thought, her own
madrasa
or college. She will return to university and study Islam at a higher degree level. To these ends I am thinking of sending her to Misr, Cairo University, which is the oldest Islamic university in the Muslim world. As part of her new life, she will attend Islamic conferences around the world – whenever or wherever they are offered. She will be under the wing of another Holy Woman – Sakina, who is a good friend of our family. Mohtarama Sakina is going to initiate my daughter into her new role. For, you see, it is not an easy matter to become a Holy Woman, as there is so much to learn and many expectations to fulfil. In fact, it is a new life.’

‘The only difference is that in order for my Zarri
Bano to do all of this, she will not have the time or the will for mundane things – the everyday things.’

Habib stopped to catch his breath, letting his gaze travel over the assembled guests. The large room was now blanketed in an eerie silence. Only the purring sound of the ceiling fans could be heard. A sigh of pure satisfaction escaped him. Now mightily pleased with his own eloquence, he continued.

‘As I was saying, my daughter will be too busy to become involved in the trivial things that girls enjoy doing, like going to the bazaars for bangles. She will not have time for marriage, husband or family. Which husband, I ask you all, would tolerate a wife devoting herself totally to
ibadah
, to worship. To perform this role well, you must give yourself totally to it. My daughter has agreed to do all of this, and to commit herself to becoming our clan’s Holy Woman in the traditional style of our family. She will also, from henceforth, become my sole heiress, to whom all this wealth and land of mine I bequeath, when I die. It will then be up to her how she disposes of her inheritance. Normally it is passed on to the first male heir of a sibling. So, for instance, if my Ruby were to have a son, he would become the heir.

‘This is why we are all gathered here today, to initiate and hand over my daughter to her new role. Our
buzurg
will perform the ceremony. He will start by reciting some
surahs
from the Holy Quran and
surah
Al-Yasin.

‘Please begin!’ Habib turned to the elder
buzurg
, before returning to his seat.

Dressed in a long black coat and with a white, starched turban on his head, the
buzurg
stood up. Clearing his throat, he read from the Holy Quran.
Hearing his voice ringing out clear and loud in the hall, the women quickly hastened to cover their heads with their scarves in deference to the sacred words. Then the elder
buzurg
, lifting the Holy Quran from the wooden trellis stand, bent down in front of Zarri Bano; he held it up over her head first and read some more
surahs
and then put it close to her face.

Zarri Bano looked up at him, not knowing what was expected of her. Then when understanding dawned on her she took the Holy Quran into her hands and kissed it reverently on both sides. The
buzurg
prompted her to repeat some
surahs
from it. She obliged, while the guests watched and listened spellbound. The
buzurg
was not an Imam, but the ceremony had become very much like a
nikka
, a wedding ceremony. When Zarri Bano had finished reciting after him, the old man thanked her and then gently and respectfully placed the Holy Quran back in its place.

‘Now you are wedded to your faith,’ he told her in a voice that echoed around the room.

Going up to Habib, he offered his hand. Habib pulled the
buzurg
into a warm embrace. Then, turning to his father, Suraj Din, he did the same. The words of congratulation –
mubarak
– echoed eerily around the almost silent room.

For some of the male guests, this was a cue to get up and talk to their fellow men. The ceremony was over and the hall had become noisy, all of a sudden. The guests began to embrace one another in a manner
reminiscent
of wedding ceremonies. Zarri Bano remained sitting with her eyes fixed on the Holy Quran, not quite taking in the scene. When the noise level eventually penetrated her mind, she turned round to look at the guests.

Her gaze swung over the crowd, meeting eyes and then darting away, until they fell upon a pair of grey ones. Her befuddled brain came alive. Those eyes! She knew that man! An aching awareness raced through her body. ‘He has come after all, even though he said that he wouldn’t.’ Both gratified and humbled by his presence, her eyes sought to communicate her apology, trying desperately to spell what her lips wouldn’t say for her, and what her hands couldn’t tell him. ‘Please forgive me!’ they begged of the man whose love she had sacrificed. ‘Please forgive and forget me. It is all over!’

Sikander latched onto her eyes, both captivated and loath to let go of the accidental contact. They were the only tangible means of communication he had, by which he was able to relate to his old Zarri Bano. While hers expressed sorrow and apology, his eyes darted
frustration
and betrayal at her – flashing out his own
particular
message: ‘I will never forgive you, Zarri Bano!’